


Internship

by blackgoldmentality



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst, Gen, No Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-18 22:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15495864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackgoldmentality/pseuds/blackgoldmentality
Summary: She dreams of someday becoming a doctor.Updates every Wednesday.





	1. 1/14

**Author's Note:**

> Well... this is going to be interesting.
> 
> This is the first _Naruto_ fan-fiction I have written in a really long time, and it's a bit... out of the norm from what I usually do, and people would expect. Simply put, it's a story set in an alternate universe, with the cast in high school, all about Sakura— and when I say that I mean it is _all_ about Sakura. 
> 
> **There is no romantic pairing to this story, _as it does not, in any way, center around romance!_**
> 
> I really liked Sakura as a concept, but during my time reading and watching _Naruto_ , I felt that her character was being underutilized. There were just... so many moments where she could have shined, but was ultimately left in the shadows. I also felt that a lot of her motivations didn't make sense, and that she was being—quite frankly—stupid. Honestly, it made me want to rewrite all of _Naruto_ in a way that made Sakura equal to Naruto and Sasuke...
> 
> However, as that would obviously have taken forever, I've decided to just write a Sakura-centered story in a scenario that I feel gives her better traits, and improves on the glimpses of them that she has in-canon. In a way, this is a love letter to Sakura, and how she deserved so much better, even though it's not set in the same universe as her canonical self.
> 
> Extended Summary: She dreams of someday becoming a doctor... but how far is she willing to go for it?
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the original _Naruto_ characters. I only own my interpretation and usage of this plot, and whatever miscellaneous characters I may add.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Golden Leaf Academy, late March, weather still cold enough for the winter uniform—long skirts, long sleeves, vest and jackets—but with the seasonal change on the cusp of occurring.

Her head is itchy, and she scratches at her scalp with the eraser-end of her pencil, before switching it over to the freshly sharpened point and scratching a bit harder. More concentrated, targeted scratching to get just the right spot. She puts her pencil down and runs her hands through her hair—black, long enough just to graze her shoulders—fixing whatever strands may have become astray from her insistent scratching. She will have to be more mindful of it before her classmates start to assume she has head lice or something similar to it; the irony that would bring.

Her notes are neat, with yellow and green highlighters taking on key words and their definitions or relativity, accordingly. The teacher asks who wants to help hand out worksheets, and she is one of the first to volunteer, chosen, and smiles at each person she gives the sheets to. The majority of her classmates smile back, thanking her, before starting on their work.

It only takes her ten minutes: filling it out, checking her work, and then checking it once more. She is one of the few to stand and hand-deliver their worksheet to the teacher; the others will have to move theirs up the rows of desks to be mass collected at the front. Back at her seat, in the upper front center of the classroom, she rubs at her brown eyes and blinks a few times to fight back some dryness.

Darn itchiness is everywhere.

.

.

Near the mid-afternoon break, the class schedule calls for a period of self-study; a pair of her classmates, girls to her right and behind, both relax their bodies and start lightly conversing with her on how relieved they are. She laughs, gently jostling them to use this time productively, and both swear they will one moment, before getting lost in the latest issue of their favored magazine, the next. She can only shake her head, smiling, watching for but a brief moment as they eagerly point at a model or product that they “heart.” She officially starts off the period on her own, at first, with other classmates moving their desks closer to one another to work together, but soon enough she’s approached by a group of three who want her help.

“Um, hello, Miss Haruno, could you help us out a bit here? You see, we’ve been working on this math question for the past ten minutes, and keep getting different answers.” The three boys look at her expectantly, nervous that she would say no, but of course she does not, because she is always happy to help.

“Of course. Let’s go back to your table so we can sit.” She stands and takes a few moments to get out her material for math, knowing that this situation would not stop after one question. The boys guide her to where they had moved their desks to make a misshapen triangle, all facing one another.

“You can sit here,” says one of them, gesturing towards the single seat facing the two. It is his seat, she knows, and he pulls a chair from an empty nearby desk to sit in the enclave created between the three.

“Thank you,” she replies warmly, and smooths out the back of her skirt, which reaches past her knees, as she sits down. It is obvious to her that at least one of the boys of the group—likely the one who gave her his seat—thinks of her as a bit more than a classmate, judging from the glances they think she cannot see, and how wide their grins are. “Let us start, show me the equation.”

“It’s this one,” says the leader of the group, showing her a problem containing x, y, and z, multi-step with more than one operation in use. She knows immediately that it is likely the use of parentheses that is stumping them.

“You are having problems with the isolation, which is not being made any better because of the order of operations you have to do.”

“Yeah, we keep getting confused. We get answers that, like, _work_ , but there’s always that feeling that it’s wrong.”

“When one of us tries to reproduce the other’s answer, we start arguing because we do something differently.”

“See?” The boy whose chair she was in, shows her a slip of loose-leaf paper which they had been using to work the problems out. There are two different pen colors on the paper, the most prominent being the unforgiving red that crosses out what is “wrong.”

“Hmm…” She pauses for a moment to pull out her math notebook, and flicks through the pages to find yesterday’s date, when she had finished that problem for homework. Coming to it, she turns it around so that all three boys can see, as she begins to explain the solving process; she circles in pencil the areas she wants to emphasize for them, which are already highlighted in yellow.

“…So as you can see, as long as you follow the typical order of operations, it should not be too difficult. The rest of it we have already done in class, times before.”

“Are you sure that’s what we’re supposed to do?” The boy sitting to her right, asks, nervous, chewing on his lip. “I mean, not that I don’t trust you or anything but…” The add-on a bit rushed, a bit of saliva falling onto the desk that he quickly wipes away, muttering an apology.

“The formula is the one that was written on the board. If the teacher did not want us to use it, then he would not have introduced it.”

“Right, right,” he is visibly more flustered than before, “right…”

One of them laughs, calling their friend’s name, saying, “Her notes are like a million times better than yours could ever be, why would she be wrong?” He has her notebook close to his chest, repeatedly looking down at it as he and the group’s second use it as a reference for the rest of the problems on the worksheet; erasing some and redoing them, having small victories with those correct.

“Miss Haruno, could you teach me how to take notes like this?” He had spoken the least of the group.

“I can, if you would like.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate it.”

“Teach me as well.”

“Me three?”

“Hey, don’t start making more work for her.”

“It is really no problem at all,” she speaks honestly, “I can teach you all at the same time, and it would be a few simple tricks that you could pick up in seconds.”

“Are you sure Miss Haruno? We don’t want to cause you any more trouble than we already have.”

“Not possible, as you have not caused me any trouble; and in terms of mathematics, something multiplied by nothing is nothing— well, actually, it is one, but that is not enough to be a bother.”

They are relieved hearing that, and amidst continuing to work from her notebook—her chiming in every now and then to clarify a point, or even give a light explanation as to why she chose to write something one way and not the other—they set a time and location for her to tutor them on taking notes. About a half hour or so after school, before she has to leave and they start their clubs. They will start that very day.

.

.

“Good afternoon, Miss Haruno.”

“Good afternoon, Nurse.”

It is lunchtime, and as she typically does, she is in the Health and Wellness Office—so says the gold-plated sign above the double doors, in both Japanese and English. She has an insatiable interest in medicine, and since her first week, would come to the office every day to converse with the acting Nurse.

“What are you having for lunch today?”

“The cafeteria had a four-star meal.” A high nutrition value.

“That’s good, that’s good. I was afraid you would come here again without eating.”

“Well, after the last time you chided me for that, I decided to always eat before coming here. You did have a point, too.” Lie, her stomach emptier than it was early in the morning when she had left her home without breakfast. A bad habit that is none-too-easy to kick.

“So,” she switches topics from her empty stomach to their daily chatter, “what cases did you have today?”

“The usual aggravation of allergies.”

“Nothing… _shocking_?”

“Well of course not,” the Nurse says, presenting a particular look half amused and half smug, “you know very well cases like that are rare— especially at somewhere like this.” Speaking to the opulence of the building.

“I know…”

“Once again, you’re upset.”

“I keep remembering that time a student came in and fainted while you were not here. Remember then?” Nodding. “I took care of them by myself for a solid five minutes before your return—they were on the bed, blanketed, and comfortable. I would have given them some medicine, too, if I did not know any better.”

“We could have been sued— I would’ve lost my job.”

“Nothing like that has ever happened again. The closest to it was the student who was a level five bleeder— a gusher.”

“Oh _goodness_ please don’t describe it like that.”

“All from a simple, small nosebleed. It was—”

“ _Traumatizing_.”

“I still do not understand how you are a nurse if you cannot handle the sight of blood.”

“Correction: I can handle the sight, smell, and even taste of blood. When it comes in small doses. Large… _gushing_ moments like that are my weakness— for most all fluids, really. Oh. Did I ever tell you the story of my daughter?”

“A few… but I do not remember any like that.”

“Well, she had a friend over one night, and the two of them gorged themselves on sweet and salty snacks. They were mixing whatever they could into a bowl and devouring it for fun. I get up to go to work the next morning—back before I started to work here—and as she’s at the top of the stairs trying to greet me, when she starts projectile vomiting all over the walls and floor. It. Was. Horrifying.”

She is unable to control her laughter as she thinks of such a situation, of the look of horror on the Nurse’s face as her daughter’s night of amusement turns into a horror show. She tries her best to cover up her laughter with her hand, but one look at the Nurse’s expression as she continues to retell the story, talking of the aggravating process of cleaning up her home, and she is back to being boisterous.

“I am sorry… I am— hahaha— sorry…” She can hardly speak, trying to control her breathing. “Oh… oh my… I am sorry, but that is funny. Wow. _Wow_.”

“Laugh all you want, hopefully I can do the same someday soon,” the Nurse says, smiling at her reaction. “But really, if you think you can handle something like that—or like the blood incident—then you’re well suited to being a doctor, Miss Haruno.”

“Well… being able to handle physical parts of the job will not help me much,” she pulls some of her hair behind her ears, feeling her face as having gotten hotter from the laughter, “I want to help out more with the psychological aspect of things.”

“Physical therapy goes hand-in-hand with that, consider it as well.”

“…You have a point… Last night, I was looking up internships again, and felt envious of those university students that could apply to them. The greatest hospitals in the country are offering them up for the summer, and I…” A breath of hopelessness passes her lips.

“—have many years left to go, yes, but you’ll get there someday.”

“You think so?”

“I’ve always said so, haven’t I?”

“Mmm, there _are_ some for Year 2, going forward. They are less intensive than the ones given to university students, but they are certainly better than nothing.”

“Well, there you go. The opportunity to apply is closer than you think.”

“One more year.”

“Will you be staying here for Years 2 and 3?”

“I will. My scholarship has been extended for it.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

.

.

“Care to explain _why_ you’re late?” Her friend, a no-nonsense type of girl whose phone case was of a cute white bunny, the holding strap dangling from the bottom being of a brown little bear, greets. The uniform she wears is of a different design and color than her own—the skirt slightly shorter and ruffled, with the blazer dark green with gold lining instead of her tan, woven sweater.

“Well, I had a bit of overtime at school today, _sorry_ ,” she mocked, one foot and then the other off of her bike.

“What for?”

“Tutoring some classmates. They asked me to teach them how to take notes properly.”

“Did you make them buy colorful highlighters?”

“No, no, well… not yet at least. I looked through their notebooks and—”

“—here let me hold that for you—”

“—thank you—and looked for a way to improve the ways that they have already been taking notes, building up on an already established foundation.” She hooks her bike onto the regulated rack, and her friend returns her backpack as the two of them head into the building. “I will not lie, though, it was a bit difficult. One of them had awful handwriting, and it felt like I was deciphering hieroglyphs.”

“That’s not part of the course material.”

“Thankfully. Did you really stand outside here waiting for me, for an hour?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. What else was I going to do? Go inside and talk to the other early birds? You know they’re not fun to converse with, Sakura. Were any of the people you tutored cute?”

“How would I possibly know that?”

“You _saw_ them with _your_ eyes.”

“Yes, but you know that I do not pay attention to that sort of thing. It does not interest me. I do not understand how you have the time to even humor having a boyfriend.” Her friend is a bit of a socialite; her family has a public presence in their city, and more often than not with a plate much fuller than her own.

“I can’t keep my head on business _all_ the time.” She would be taking over her father’s company once she graduates university, no man at her side needed. “If I did that, I’d grow to hate it. It’s a good thing to occupy myself with new and exciting things.”

“You complain about boys more than you compliment them.”

“Yes well they’re a good concept but the execution is just—” Her friend pauses to make a disgusted and exasperated face; her laughter is mostly kept internal due to other classes being in session at the building. “Eternal mood towards boys: disappointed, but _not_ surprised.” Their giggles are a bit louder this time.

Arriving at the room for their cram session after school, they greet the teacher at the front of the room, signing by their names for attendance, and then head to the front left of the room to take their seats; they are the last two to the group of six that always arrive at least a half hour before the challenging sessions start. The windows provide them with the bit of sunshine they need to function.

She chats lightly with her friend beside her as the room begins to fill-up. By the beginning of class, everyone is seated, the room fitting over thirty people with only twenty-four needed.

She starts to feel hungry.

After the class ends, the quiz catering to the topics they reviewed that day is handed back to them, graded—she gets a high mark once more—and she and her friend thank the teacher and say goodbye to some classmates.

“Now, to the library,” she sits on the seat of her bike, with her friend settling herself on the back pegs.

“I have to ask: Do you have an ‘off’ switch for studying?”

“I do not,” she says, smiling as she begins to pedal.

“Well you really should. Keeping your nose to the grindstone can’t be healthy—and _you_ should now that. Ugh, wait. What am I even saying? You _do_ know that, but you do it anyways because you’re so… linear.”

“Linear?”

“You don’t think about much else outside of your desire to be a doctor.”

“Is this going to lead to you telling me I should get a boyfriend?”

“I doubt you’d be interested in any guy that wasn’t an attending at the hospital he owns, and a real silver fox at that.”

“Oh gosh, I could not go out with an older man like that.”

“Mmm… that’s what you’re saying now, but when you’re a young twenty-something interning, what’s to say that the world won’t make it so that you have a one-night stand with a guy who ends up being your hot boss at the new hospital you literally just started working at that day?”

“That is… oddly specific.”

“And _possible_.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“I’m amazing and on-the-nose with this scenario, and you know it.”

At the library, she stops by a black car near the front steps, where a black-suited man bows at them—at her friend—as they arrive. The petite girl hops off of the back pegs, and acknowledges the man as he opens the door for her, but not going in before turning for a moment to hug her.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Sakura. Don’t stay too long.”

“I will not, I will not. Have a nice weekend.”

“You too.”

She waves at the car as it disappears into the streets, then begins to make her way up the ramp to the library, where a bicycle rack waits for her at the end. Pulling out her phone, which sports a matching bunny case, but with the grip being of a purple cat, she checks the time: 7:16pm. She will be able to stay at the library for about two hours.

.

.

At home, she leaves her bike outside next to the front door, and once inside changes from her school shoes to slippers. It is a bit past 10pm, all the lights are off, and aside from the buzzing of night, the neighborhood is quiet. She navigates her home in the darkness so as to cause as little trouble as possible, not wanting to wake her parents should they be asleep.

“I left dinner for you on the table.”

“Mama!” She catches herself, covering her mouth, taking a moment to allow the atmosphere to get quiet once more. She exhales. “You scared me...”

“I’m not a ghost yet, there’s nothing to be scared of.” Her mother catches her as she is going up the stairs to her room, and so she turns and heads down into the older woman’s warm arms. She smells of smoke and spices, as usual. “How was school? You’re sweaty.”

“Long ride home, as always,” she responds, smiling, her mother’s hands moving through her hair, her head in her chest. “I did well on my exams.”

“Good, good. You know that’s what I like to hear.”

“I know, mama, I know,” she pulls back, “I’m gonna go take a bath.”

“I’ll reheat your food, make some tea.”

“Thanks, mama.”

Up the stairs, into her bedroom, changing out of her day look and grabbing her towel, she heads to the bathroom on the main floor—quickly showering and skipping the bath. In her towel she dries and combs her hair—needing a wash, faded, barely two inches long in length—which takes around ten minutes to do. Afterwards, she pulls it back with a headband as she changes into her night clothes.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Mrs. Oremi came down earlier to thank me for patching her husband’s clothes, and brought along some fish. Such a nice woman—it was already deboned.”

“Smells wonderful.” They sit at a circular table in the kitchen, lights on, the smell of the food making her empty stomach hungrier than it was all day. For a moment she scolds herself on holding out so long to eat, but she always prefers eating when she is fully relaxed.

“You missed one of my calls earlier.” Her mother, while not having any fish with her, is sipping from her favorite cup some fresh tea.

“I was at the library, mama, and called you right back when I could. This is why I tell you that we should be texting instead.”

“No thanks, none of that for me. Calling’s faster.”

“I can take pictures of myself to send.”

“I’d still prefer calling you. There’s no greater security than hearing your voice.”

“I still think you need a cellphone, mama.”

“The house phone is fine, Sakura.”

“What about… if you’re at the grocery store and forget the name of my favorite snack? With a cellphone, you could call me and I can tell you so I won’t have to run to the store after school to get them.”

A moment of silence, her mother contemplating her words.

“…Did you eat before now?”

“Oh, mama, you can’t just change the subject like that.”

“So you didn’t, then?”

Refusing to answer, she continues enjoying her meal, being picky with the rice and side dish, savoring every last bite of the delicious fish. “I hope Mrs. Oremi asks you to fix her husband’s pants again.” They have a laugh. At the end of her meal, she sends her mother off to her room with one more set of hugs and kisses, and then begins to wash and put away the dishes.

As she heads back to the stairs, she has a moment of pause. Standing in front of the door to her parent’s bedroom, she feels her stomach twist a bit. Looking down, wriggling her toes, she mutters, “Goodnight, papa,” hardly audible, before silently making her way up to her bedroom. The door closes behind her, and she moves to sit at her desk where she takes out some reference materials, puts on her headphones, and sets herself up for another few hours of reading.

At around one in the morning, she finally sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is meant to introduce you all to my version of Sakura in this story... obviously. I have literally every chapter of this story plotted out from beginning to end, with 3 of the 14 total chapters written. I started writing it way back in June of '17, and now that I'm officially on AO3, I feel that it's the right time to post it since I'm getting more experimental with my writing.
> 
>  _There is so much to this story that I can't wait to get to the later chapters and show you all_! However, for now, let's just talk about the next chapter, yes?
> 
> Oh! Before that, this story does not yet have an update schedule. I'm putting up the first chapter to test the waters, as I haven't done anything like this before, and haven't seen others attempt it. I am thinking of officially updating it Wednesdays, though, but that may have to wait until next week. I may also have to change the rating of this story at some point, depending on how I write things out, but will give a warning in the chapter before the one that has the official rating change. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Get to know more of Sakura's home life! Hooray!... Maybe.


	2. 2/14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second pre-written chapter! Due to the nature of the first few settings of the story—and honestly the story as a whole—the chapters won't be very long, which I think suits this material all the better. It really helps me to develop things in little ways, allowing for some pretty interesting world-building if I do say so myself.
> 
> Also, I do have to notify those that read the original first chapter, that I've made some edits to it to correspond with the right age for Sakura. In my notes for this plot, I had first written things out as her being a ninth grader, at 14; but to keep in line with how the Japanese school system works, she's now in Year 1 of senior high-school, at 15/16, over the course of this story. The timestamp is still her first year of high-school, but properly adjusted for the country she's in (via Google). Don't worry, you don't have to reread the first chapter (unless you want to), as the edits changed literally three lines of text during her scene with the nurse.
> 
> Finally, thanks for the warm reception on the first chapter! It definitely felt good to see people take to this concept so well~! I can't wait for you guys to read what I have planned...

Sundays are the only days when she does not have to wake-up to an alarm. She takes her time, lying in bed for a few minutes, turning and feeling the small rays of sunshine that leak through tiny spaces in her blinds. When she final does get up, she stretches her arms out and stands, touching her toes, moving her hips, getting her blood pumping.

_Another day…_

Breakfast is fast, and her shower even faster. She is fully prepared for the day a bit past eleven, in shorts and a loose t-shirt; it is just warm enough in her home. She is in the kitchen, getting some juice to drink, when her mother calls for her.

“Sakura, come help me with this!” Her mother exclaims from the second floor.

“Coming!” She is up two steps before the phone begins to ring, and makes a detour back to the kitchen to answer it. “Hello, Haruno Residence, Sakura speaking.”

**“Hello, this is Mr. Mai. To whom am I speaking to?”**

“Good afternoon Mr. Mai, I’m Haruno Sakura, how are you?”

**“Oh! You’re Hebuki’s daughter! I’m doing fine, sweetie—is your mother home? I need to speak with her immediately.”**

“Just a moment please, I’ll go call mama.”

**“Thank you.”**

She leaves the phone face-down next to the receiver—wishing for a moment that her mother would opt for one cordless—as she heads up the stairs to tell her mother that Mister Mai is on the phone for her. Her mother is in the sewing room, bright fabrics always eye-catching, and currently sitting in front of the large cutting mat she uses to make big pieces of clothing—very much in need, from what she can see, as the patterns laying on the floor around her are grand.

“Mama, Mr. Mai is on the phone for you.”

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t say, only that he needed to talk to you _immediately_.” She helps her mother stand to her feet.

“Probably spilled something on his mother’s dress again. Can you continue cutting the pattern out for me while I take this call?”

“Will do.”

“Thank you, honey.”

She takes her mother’s place, and with amateur but trained hands, continues to cut along the dotted lines her mother had made with pencil on the fabric. The fabric is pulled and pinned taught, and so it is easy to drag the small, sharpened knife along the lines and make quick, clean cuts. She imagines herself doing so to a surgery patient or, first, a cadaver.

A few moments later her mother returns, mumbling to herself and shaking her head full of bleach-blonde hair. There are pictures hanging in the room of her when it was long and black.

“What did Mr. Mai want?”

“Oh the usual. Found some wine spots on a fur coat he got for his mother, and wanted to see when he could bring it over for me to clean it. That silly man has yet to learn to check clothes before he buys them.”

“Fur? Is it real?”

“For the price he’s giving me to clean it, I’m glad it is.” Her mother makes work as a seamstress from home in the neighborhood, having built up a small but steady—and sometimes high-ranking—clientele that keep her skills from getting rusty, offering a wide arrange of services.

“What are you making?” She questions her mother, who sits across from her around the mat, starting work on cutting another pattern.

“A wedding kimono for Nori’s daughter.”

“She’s getting married?”

“Just got proposed to the other day. Nori has been planning this wedding for years in advance, and called me up the moment she saw the ring.”

“I didn’t think people were still doing traditional weddings nowadays.”

“Well, Nori is very old-fashioned,” her mother’s face going bright, “which I couldn’t be more glad for. It’s been so long since I’ve made a wedding dress, much less one like this.” Inside the closet of the sewing room are dozens of books on traditional Japanese clothing, one of her mother’s favorite subjects.

“…I hope that someday, when you get married, I’ll be able to make your dress as well, Sakura. Something beautiful that matches you.”

Her face begins to flush. “Oh mama, please don’t say something like that. You know how it makes me feel.” Embarrassment at its peak.

“It’ll be dazzling, with lace and flowers. Would you like something hand-painted? I heard that’s becoming very popular, and saw a girl just the other day in town with a hand-painted jacket. She told me she did it herself. Although I wonder if that would work on a wedding dress… unless you decided to wear a leather jacket instead of a shawl.”

“My wedding dress is going to be Western, then?”

“It could be traditional Japanese, too, but just not as… big with all those layers. Something like that on you is just too heavy.”

“You’re skinny and short, too, mama.”

“I’ve gotten a little bigger with all my years, but—”

“ _Ow_!” Pulling back from table, feeling stung, she cups a bleeding finger in the palm of her hand.

“Let me see,” her mother says, standing, preparing to help.

“It’s okay, just a small slice. I’ll go clean and stitch it up.”

“Hold on, _stitch—_?” Before she would give her mother a chance to speak further, she is out of the room and on her way downstairs.

The first-aid kit is in the kitchen, behind the pure and watered down bottles of dish soap, and bug sprays. Putting it on the counter, she turns on the faucet while opening the kit, her bleeding finger stinging for a moment as fresh water touches it—more so when the disinfectant spray covers it. A pain she does not mind in the least. Then comes her favorite part, sewing it up.

The cut is not very deep; the type of superficial wound a child would get on the playground. However, it is rare for her to get opportunities to sew skin—to practice her suture abilities—and so she uses the small wound as an excuse.

Thin white string goes into one of her mother’s old sewing needles, and the needle through her skin. A few loops, a tight pull, a snip, a knot, a finish. The needle goes away, her eyes admiring her handiwork, and a bit of cream goes on over the area before it is all bandaged up. The first aid kit is returned, and she is back at her mother’s side within twenty minutes.

“You need to stop that,” her mother begins to chastise, “I’ve told you so before, Sakura. If you need to sew something up, you could always help me with my orders.”

“It’s not the same, mama. Fabric and skin are two very different things.”

“But the process is the same.”

“Then it should make no difference if I choose to do it on my skin.” One would think her victory is secured with that.

“No, no, no. It _does_ make a difference. You know how much that… bothers me.”

“Because you’re afraid of needles.” Her mother’s hands leave the pattern cutting up to her, whilst the matriarch begins to assemble some of the already-done pieces on a cloth-covered sewing dress form. Her eyes not on her work, her hands move autonomously and swiftly with a needle and thread.

“I’m fine with needles, I just don’t like them poking your skin.”

“Maybe this summer I can go up north to work on a farm, and sew sheep skin?”

A pause, a sharp look.

“I’m joking, mama, joking.”

“…Thankfully this habit of yours hasn’t progressed to anything bad. I’ve seen on TV these… kids who make patterns on their bodies that way. They’re worse than the ones that get tattoos everywhere.”

“I thought you liked tattoos.”

“I do, but there are certain places you shouldn’t get them. Your face, for one.”

“So if I got a cherry blossom branch on the side of my face?” The path for the hypothetical tattoo is traced with her finger: right side of her face, starting near her forehead, going around her green eye, following the curve of her cheek, and ending at one end of her lips.

“You would be taken to get that removed in surgery _immediately_. Don’t ever think of doing something like that, it’d ruin your career.”

“It’d be redundant.” Pale pink curls rest at the nape of her neck.

“Mmm…” Her mother grows silent, the room’s noise consisting mostly of the living world outside sneaking in, the patterns being cut, the patterns being sewn. “Mmm…” More silence-not-silence. “Mmm…” And more.

Finally, her mother clears her throat. “This dress is going to keep me busy all day… After you’re done with the patterns, can you clean the main room? It’s been over a month since I’ve dusted the medals, and I don’t want them to rust.”

“I’ll do it after helping papa with his stretches.”

 _Speaking of..._ There’s a clock in the room—old, chipped paint, of a red rooster, a gift from her father to her mother many years ago. It reads just past noon. “I’ll be back to finish up.”

“He’s a little extra grouchy today.”

“He’s always this way when it’s warm.”

Her parents’ shared bedroom at night, her father’s solitary fortress for the rest of the day. Stopping in front of its now intimidating doors, she knocks, calls out to him—“Excuse me, papa, I’m coming in”—and then opens the door and enters the room. He sits in his wheelchair, facing the only open window, catching glimpses of birds and wires and the tops of other houses from a safe distance away, a fan always on him, keeping him cool.

She keeps her head low, her voice soft, as she pushes him over to the bed, and then helps him to rest atop it, lying on his back. She gently massaged his limbs, then bends them at pivotal joints for a few cycles. It is a quiet process involving minimal eye-contact, stomach in knots, voice caught in throat, aiming to help with blood circulation. Fingers and toes are done individually, eight toes and seven fingers. Finally, the head, left and right, left and right, red hair touching the tips of her fingers, no eye contact. She returns him to the chair and his window.

“Have a good day, papa,” her goodbye for that Sunday.

Relief washes over her as the door barricades her from him. Exhaling, she shakes her small coils, and returns to her mother’s work room. Her mother winces from pricking herself with a needle, but the poke is not nearly as deep or wide as hers had been from the slice.

“How’d it go?”

“Didn’t say a word…” Melancholic. She sits on the floor with her knees bent, and resumes cutting the garment pieces with the knife.

“…Maybe get the scissors instead?”

“I’ll be fine, mama, I was just distracted before…”

“Now you sound like you’re in a bad mood.”

Her mother cannot see it because her back is to her, but she frowns as she pauses in gliding the sharpened edge of the knife over the silky, red fabric on the large cutting board.

She exhales.

She moves the knife once again.

“…He’ll get better someday, Sakura, you know that…”

“I haven’t heard him talk in so long,” her response low and slow, “so I’m not sure how much I believe you on that.”

“He will, he will. He just can’t look at you right now—”

“—because he wishes he had died.”

“No, no! Gosh, honey, no! Where would you—!” Hebuki pauses in her own work. She places the needle she had been using into the sewing dress form. Her head rests atop the metal hat holder poking out of the form’s neck. “This is all still new to us… I don’t think he’s fully registered that he… can’t walk anymore— that he’s been discharged and uprooted, and—” A shaky breath. “Even I’m not used to it, yet.”

“I miss California.”

“So do I, honey, so do I— But we can’t dwell on what’s happened forever. In time, he’ll be able to talk to us again just like he did before, and things will go back to normal, even if just a little bit… We just have to keep supporting him like we’ve been. Trust me on this.” She picks the needle back up, and continues constructing the garment with a small but tearful and hopeful smile on her face that her daughter cannot see.

Sakura is still unsure of how much she believes her mother on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Sakura's parents first appeared in—I think it was, the _Naruto_ movie about an alternate universe Sakura or something, I... wasn't sure what to think of them aside from, wow, the author _really_ didn't have a good way to justify Sakura's looks, now, did he? I mean, there weren't any characters with hair as ridiculous as Sakura's father—which made me realize that she was made to be "cute" first and "realistic" much, much later. A common theme in anime, which I hadn't paid much mind to, until a comment on an old story of mine asked why one of my OCs had such brightly-colored hair when that would work against them as a ninja.
> 
> Honestly I think touching on how different Sakura looked from practically every one else in the cast was something that should've been touched on more—an aspect of her that I fully intend to explore and justify in this story! In my way! Speaking of...
> 
> Next Chapter: The Sakura in this chapter sure was different from the one in the last, wasn't she?


	3. 3/14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting to release this chapter since I first came up with the concept of this story over a year ago!

Her natural hair is vibrant red—crimson. It crowns her freckled body in deep waves, brushing it out only on the days it is washed. It goes well with her green eyes; as complimentary colors tend to do. It “fit” her, made her look more like her foreign father than native mother, a “half.” Her past look.

Looking in the mirror now—early in the morning, in her bedroom, showered, getting ready for school—the freckled skin and green eyes stare back at her. The thick red hair does not. Badly bleached, short pink curls do.

The freckles soon begin to disappear by use of a potent liquid foundation; she pats it onto her face and neck and back of her hands, all the parts that her uniform will not cover. It is sealed in with a dusting of light powder and setting spray. Her skin now shows her unblemished and pale.

Her green eyes are masked away by brown costume contact lenses using several before and after eye-drops.

The curls are last to go. Atop her dresser is a white and faceless mannequin head with a short black wig resting. She hides the curls under a thin wig cap, and glues the cap just a bit in front of her hairline before adding a different adhesive above, to hold the wig as she slowly pulls it on over. She pins it more where necessary; brushes the woven hair; adds oil to make it shine; assures that the bangs are not out of place. When she feels that it is on tightly and convincingly enough, she puts on her uniform—white dress shirt, dark green skirt and blazer—last week’s cream sweater outside hanging to dry—and a striped gold-and-green neck tie, and double-checks her camouflage. With every detail of herself pristine, she packs her makeup and combs into the school-assigned messenger bag and heads downstairs.

It is still a bit early, around a half hour or so before she needs to leave, and so she does some of her mother’s prep-work around the house. She cleans the leftover dishes from what had surely been a late night snack request on her father’s part, collects and disposes of the trash, replaces the bags in the now empty trash bins, and does a final sweep of the house with a broom, before finally heading out.

It is raining that day, and so she grabs her umbrella after putting on her shoes at the front door. Her emotions that day are mixed; on one hand, the soothing sound of rain falling against her umbrella whilst she heads to the train station is one of her favorite in the world—on the other, having to pay for train travel, to and fro in the cycle of school-afterschool-home, is never a good thing. She always tries to spend her money as minimally as possible.

When fully under cloud cover some ways down the sidewalk, she reaches out with one hand to allow the raindrops to fall onto it, smiling as the cool water hits her skin—then quickly snaps her hand back under the umbrella, remembering that her foundation is not good enough to be waterproof.

 _You should be hating this right now instead of loving it,_ her sensible side tells her. Water is ever so risky, as the slightest drop could melt her. Checking the front and back of her hand, she is relieved to find that her skin is still pressed with makeup. She lifts her hand to her mouth, and opts to blow the remaining water away while she can, not wanting to risk blurring it with a rub.

“Did ya burn yaself, hun?” A worrisome old woman asks her this from under the awning of the nearby marketplace; the woman does not know that she knows her, having conversed with her often when an errand calls her there.

“Oh, yes, yes,” she takes a moment to adjust her voice, making it lower and smoother, “I am quite well. Thank you for asking.”

“What were ya holdin’ yer hand outta there ‘for? Tryin’ to get wet and skip school?” She politely giggles at the woman’s jest; the expression on the store owner’s face turns into one of squinting curiosity. “Haven’t see ya ‘round ‘ere ‘afore.” The spindly woman walks as close to her as she can get without being exposed to the rain. She keeps a smile on her face as she is obviously scrutinized from top-to-bottom. “What school do ya go to?”

“The Golden Leaf Academy,” she replies honestly; the uniform is too out-of-place in the homely neighborhood to belong to any of the schools there.

The woman moves her neck back in a moment of shock, blinking, adjusting her round glasses as though they had just been blown off her face. “What’s one-a you doin’ ‘round ‘ere?”

“Visiting a relative over the weekend—my cousin just moved into this area on her own, and she invited me over.”

“An’ she moved in ‘ere? I woulda thought yer kind had homes ‘ta spare.”

Her laugh is convincing enough. “No, no; my family is not that way at all. We believe in a more… natural come-up.”

“Ya gotta work fer it, huh?”

“That is precisely so.”

“Well, I guess that’s good— yeah, yeah, is’ fine, jus’ fine. Feel bad fer the girl havin’ to live ‘round ‘ere by haself, but what can-ya-do?” The woman waves the issue away with her hand, and lets her go. “Run on off ‘ta school now, hun. Stand ‘ere any longer and people’re gonna want ‘ta get to know ya a lil’ better than good.”

“I will, ma’am,” she bows, “thank you for conversing with me. Please, have a nice day.”

“Ya too, dearie, ya too.”

.

.

It takes her an average of a half-hour of walking to reach the train station closest to her home; it is some three or so neighborhoods away from her house. The demographics of the areas she passes change from those just barely above the poverty line, to those who live comfortably some tens of thousands of yearly income past it. The houses are bigger—further apart, less cluttered on the outside, with defining features such as balconies—the stores are more evenly spaced, and there are recreational venues erected.

Her subway-pass rests in the internal pocket of her blazer; she retrieves it when she is inside of the station and out of the rain, just before passing through the gates. She glances at the amount on it as the machine momentarily displays it—there is enough on it to last her two full days, leftover from the last time the weather had her taking the train. The news report last evening had said rains would continue this week, one and off, thus she will have to ask her mother for a weekly amount if they continue into the following.

Thankfully, Mr. Mai’s recent request to clean a new fur coat for his mother can easily pay for that, so she will be able to do so with minimal to no guilt.

_I wish I didn’t have to ask at all…_

On the platform for her train, she heads to the spot she uses every day. It had taken her a few weeks of trial-and-error when she first got admitted into the Academy, but eventually she found the area that would put her right in front of the staircase of the stop near her school. She enjoys being one of the first people out of the train car, and down the steps or escalator—her choice of which depending on how much of a rush she is in.

At said spot, she grabs a newspaper from the nearby dispenser; she hooks her umbrella onto the straps of her messenger bag to keep her hands free to sift through the newsprint pages. Next to the feeling and sound of rain, the feeling and smell of printed pages are her favorite things.

She begins to read the paper from the cover, going over every major story and column; the next page has a continuation of the cover story, telling the tale of a political scandal with the mayor’s son. She is not the least bit surprised by it.

Her train arrives, and she folds the newspaper smaller to make it easier to read whilst among the growing throng of commuters. She is one of the last to step on, as she prefers to stand as close as possible to the door. Her back is against it, her hands holding the column she is reading in front of her, and her messenger bag and umbrella lay on the left side of her body next to a seated person as they are least likely to try and steal from her with the divider between the seats and the entrance.

The door closes and her body shifts to press against the divider as the train picks up its momentum; when her body is settled, she does quick work of unfolding and refolding the paper to center on a new unread column.

She has to bite her lip to keep from gasping when she sees it.

**Internship Available**

**Senju Medical Center offering an intensive prep program for students looking to pursue a medical degree.**

**Program will involve learning and working at SMC, alongside lead doctors.**

**College credit certified.**

**See website for full details.**

It takes everything in her to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest.

_SMC? Looking for interns? **The** SMC?! Since when do they offer internships?!?!_

She clutches the article to her chest, looking down at the only immobile object in the train car—the darkly colored floors. She can feel her heart thump ever louder in her chest, and starts a series of breathing exercises to calm herself down. If she had been in her home—in her room—when she had read this, she would have been bouncing around and screeching.

Her mind clearing, she begins to feel a pit forming in her stomach.

Recollecting herself, she fully snaps out of the elated trance she had been in as the double doors open to cycle out its passengers. The taps and brushes against her shoulder are enough to allow reality to settle in. When the doors are closed once more, and the train is in its state of constant motion, she rereads the posting.

**Internship Available**

**Senju Medical Center offering an intensive prep program for students looking to pursue a medical degree.**

**Program will involve learning and working at SMC, alongside lead doctors.**

**College credit certified.**

**See website for full details.**

She swallows.

_‘…For students looking to pursue a medical degree…’_

_How… what would the age limit for that be?_

_—probably older than I am._

She exhales, slightly shaking her head.

_No, no, don’t think so negatively about it. They don’t state a specific age here, so it’s possible that they’re flexible with it._

_—or maybe they ran out of space to put in the age?_

_—that wouldn’t make any sense! It’s SMC! What company in their right mind wouldn’t give them as much space as they’d want?! They could’ve taken up a whole page and it wouldn’t have been a problem!_

_…I… I hope I’m old enough for this…_

_—I’m technically ‘looking to pursue a medical degree…’ In two years…_

Groaning in disapproval, she reaches into a zipped outer pocket of her messenger bag, and grabs her yellow highlighter; even with the shakiness of the train as it starts to slow down whilst approaching the next stop, her hand is able to compensate and keep the yellow lines she makes over the ad smooth.

She will put her worries to rest by checking the website later on in the day.

With that internal debate settled, she puts the highlighter back into its pocket, and puts the newspaper—open to the ad—into the primary section of her messenger bag. It is as she does this that a classmate whom she does not initially notices, gets onto the train.

“Miss Haruno, good morning.” The cheerful voice comes as a shock. Twisting her attention to find it, she sees the girl standing a minimal distance away, holding onto a pole that divides the long row of seats into sections, for stability.

“Good morning Miss Tamaki,” her appearance is precisely what she needed to snap back into the required mindset for the day, “it is so surprising to see you on the subway.”

“The traffic right now is just _awful_ because of the rain; it was either take the subway, be late to class, or risk slipping as I try to run.” Miss Tamaki makes a gesture of patting at her pristinely combed and bust-length black hair as she says this; the hand she uses to smooth out the shimmering locks is decorated with two rings and a gold bracelet.

“It is good to see you will not fall to any of those atrocious outcomes.”

“Thank you, thank you. What about you, Miss Haruno? Are you taking the train because of the rain, too? Or do you normally go to the Academy this way?”

“I live nearby, and so I typically ride by myself, but because of the rain I was not able to do so today.”

“If only the Academy had its own private lanes for student transportation, then we wouldn’t have to— oh! Do you think that’s something we could get funded?”

She offers a friendly giggly. “Something such as that would disrupt the flow of traffic in the surrounding neighborhood, and surely sour the relationship between the Headmaster and Mayor.”

“You have a point…” Miss Tamaki glances at the people around her; she leans in closer. “I’m not one for gossip, but… did you hear what the Mayor’s son did? I don’t think we’ll be seeing him at the Academy today.” She is very much one for gossip, routinely prefacing her interest that way.

“It would be bold of him to, and I do not necessarily peg him as the type,” she responds, indulging her.

The two lightly chat on the scandal, keeping the details in the paper as hush-hush as possible—speaking vaguely, replacing words with gestures, keeping their facial expressions as neutral as possible. When the train comes to their needed stop, they exit side-by-side and naturally change the conversation to something more acceptable within hearing range.

Their uniform becomes a more common sight after they exit the station. Whilst they walk under the cover of the umbrella—Miss Tamaki’s being large enough for the both of them—fellow classmates pop in and out to converse with them briefly. They disappear and reappear from the surrounding stores.

She and Miss Tamaki separate at the gates.

.

.

Class, as usual, diverges into a break at noon. It is then that she leaves to head to the library, and make use of their computers. The folded newspaper rests under her arm.

In her favorite spot at the end of the row of computers, she sits herself and quickly logs in by swiping her student identification card through the reader. She puts in her pin to verify that it is, in fact, her accessing her profile, and not someone who had found her ID lying about. Within another minute or so she is on the official website for the Sejun Medical Center; reading every line of text, clicking what links may appear relevant, ultimately searching for mention of the internship.

_It's not— oh! Found it!_

Strangely enough, the link to the internship is hidden under the “Careers” branch of the webpage’s site map. Is it new? She does not remember seeing it there before; and she has scrolled through this website quite often, being a fanatic for its employees and services.

The ad and its limited characters did not provide many specifics as to what the position is called—“See website for full details”—but she assumes that the one she is currently going through is that which she seeks. Reading the first paragraph of it, it introduces that the position is open to students seeking to go to medical school— Year 3 only.

 _…I knew it…_ Her insides twist forlornly. _I knew I’d be too young for this— gosh, why did I even check? To make myself more upset?!_ Not one to enjoy cracking in public, her frown grows heavier with weight as she continues to read the listing for the internship. _Don’t even bother…_

It sounds amazing.

Accepted applicants will get to intern in the area of study they are most interested in; whilst they would more than likely be paired with mid-tier residents, there is the opportunity—based on performance—to assist as well as shadow the more high-ranking officials of the hospital.

The newspaper ad has said that the internship would provide an opportunity to work with the “leading doctors” of the Sejun Medical Center, and her heart flops as posting on the official website confirms the chance to work with her idol.

**Intern schedules will be monitored by the owner of the Sejun Medical Center.**

**Interns will be placed in their area of interest, and have the opportunity to shadow leading doctors of the various facilities and services that the Sejun Medical Center houses, at their discretion and within possibility. This practice is inclusive to the owner.**

The very thought of being unable to see one of the country’s greatest surgeons at work—

 _No, no… no…_ She removes her hands from atop the desk the computer rests on and places them on her lap. She closes her eyes. She breathes.

When she opens them, she reads over the posting once more—paying extra attention to the qualifications and responsibilities being listed out. She leaves her seat briefly to request a pencil and paper from the front desk, and when she returns, she copies down this information to take home with her.

She may not be at the minimum age to be accepted into the program, but, she can at the very least prepare for the day she could be by seeing the response her current self would get. This will give her at least a year of development—that is, in case they offer the internship once more those following.

With the essentials of the posting copied down in her neat script, she signs out of the computer and returns the pencil to the front desk; the paper is neatly folded in the internal pocket of her blazer. On the way back to the classroom, she takes a detour to the bathroom, and uses the eye-drops stored in the same pocket to rehydrate the cheap contact lenses. When she can finally blink without flinching, feeling refreshed, she exits and finishes her trek.

Passing the doors, she gives pause to a classmate seeking her help, so that she can go to her desk first; whilst leaning over it, she retrieves the highlighter, then the slip of paper, and emphasizes the information she would need from home to fill-in the application.

Thankfully, she knows where her mother keeps their important documents, and will not have to reveal her doings by going to her for them. She would rather not have to deal with her mother’s pity.

.

.

The following day she returns to the library with this information printed onto a separate sheet of paper, provides an honest answer for every question, and officially applies to the internship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I promised, I justified why Sakura looks the way she does— _both_ versions of her! There's a deep mental aspect to it, but that's going to be covered in later chapters with **angst**. :3 
> 
> This chapter was also pretty info-heavy, not just because of that, but also due to some future-aligned details I drip-dropped here and there.
> 
> Next Chapter: Okay... she applied... now what?


	4. 4/14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it bad that as I re-read my own chapters I start finding small details that have to be rewritten over? Like, ugh! This is the second time (not in this chapter, but the last) that I've had to go in to update the writing because I find something that clashes with details that I've set up earlier on. 
> 
> Are the chapters planned out point-by-point? Yes. Do I come-up with small details as I write to make the scenes and characters more actual? Yes. Is this leading to moments of inconsistency? Yes.
> 
> Thankfully no one's ever pointed them out to me, so I still have my dignity as a writer...

She is starting to get nervous.

Per the posting, she is supposed to be getting a response for the internship before the preview starts during Golden Week at the end of April; the preview itself being a way for accepted applicants to get personally familiar with the program, before its official beginning in the summer. It is now mid-April, Golden Week starting in literally a week.

She has not received any reply to her application; no emails, no mail.

As she is in the library, after-school, continuing to tutor the trio of boys from some weeks ago—their sessions evolving from learning how to take notes, to mentoring on the course work overall—she pauses to grab and awake the screen of the white-furred cellphone on the table next to two blue and one black. Aside from the usual messages from her best friend, and reminders from installed applications, there are no notifications.

“For some reason,” one of the boys begins to say, the one whom she suspects likes her as more than a classmate, “I didn’t think you’d have a cellphone that… cute, Miss Haruno.”

She giggles. “Really? What did you think I would have?”

“Well, from how you look and act I would’ve bet on a… humble designer case; something made of quilted leather—”

“Kind of like our mothers,” the second and most talkative of the boys interjects, “it’s serious enough to be taken… seriously, but fashionable enough to be considered feminine. Maybe with your name embroidered on it?”

“Oh no, no, I could never feel comfortable with such an ostentatious look,” she replies. “Perhaps I may be a little more mature than others, but I am still very fond of adorable accessories.”

“You’re still a girl, after all,” the third further justifies.

“I am still young, more so.”

They resume digesting and correcting the material; every day their sessions go more quickly as the boys develop their own understanding of the course work. Her task appears to change from explaining it to them in terms they would understand, to linking the new problems and equations to the old. A light brightens their eyes at these connections, and suddenly the day’s worksheets are in the progress of being completed smoothly.

The soft dinging of her cellphone’s alarm is what closes the session.

“Would you like to continue tomorrow?” She asks them whilst packing away her materials—her notebook, textbook, writing utensils, and highlighter.

“We would, but there’ll be a soccer game tomorrow that we have to get there early to practice for.”

She remembers hearing about that. “I had completely forgotten, my apologies.”

“No need to,” the first responder continues, taking a moment to ponder internally, “but what you do need to do is come see the game.”

“Oh, I wish I could, but I have cram school at that time.”

“At least come for the practice,” their third compromises—entirely skipping the turn of the second and tallest to speak, she feels. “It’d be around the usual time for our study group, so you would be free then, wouldn’t you?”

“Well…” She has never been one for sporting events, but, seeing as how she has been determined to engage in positive relationships with her classmates, and it is true that at that time she will not have much else to do, “I shall go. Where must I go, and what time should I be there?”

“You can leave with us after class ends,” the leader of the group responds, grinning widely in a way that appears to be more so for someone else than himself. She responds with her own proper smile. “Now we’ll be able to show you that we’re much better sportsmen than intellectuals.”

“I think you do fine on both—but I do look forward to seeing you all in a more… natural element. You all have gotten to see a new side of me, so it is only fair I get to do the same for you.” The charm on her cellphone sways as she places it in the outer pocket of her messenger bag. The boys agree, expressing elation and eagerness at exhibiting their best qualities for her. “Goodbye until tomorrow; good luck on your practices.”

They see her off from the library, and she turns to head back to the classroom. It is currently being cleaned by the tasked students, and she greets them whilst she heads to her desk; they are sanitizing the whiteboard and teacher’s podium.

She removes the unnecessary school-given textbooks from her messenger bag, and returns them to their place in her desk. She has her own copies of them at home, which she splurged on to have the convenience of not needing to carry the heavy tomes to and fro; as well as to be able to write and doodle in her own. The ones the school provides are technically on loan, with a deposit required to lease them, and she is not one of those students who can overlook the amount paid to do with the books what she pleases.

With them secured away, she momentarily asks the two students on cleaning duty if there is any small task they would like for her to carry on her way out of the building, such as dumping out the trash. They tell her no, as hardly enough debris has been collected for that, and so she leaves them to work.

As she exits the school building, alone, free of work, the steps of her proper shoes the loudest sound in the pristinely kept halls, her thoughts are quick to latch onto the internship.

She pulls her cellphone from within her bag and checks the notifications once more—it is a copy from before, a set of text messages from her anxious best friend who is desperately asking her for shoe advice, and notifications stating it is time for her to collect her daily rewards and to continue her foreign language skills. With no cram school that day, what would likely be her best distraction from what she finds lacking in her inbox, is missing as a reminder.

_Don’t be so surprised. You’re younger than they wanted, and it’s not like your personal statement was anything they hadn’t heard before,_ she tries to pad her mindset with a brace for failure, _so you probably just didn’t make it—maybe they tossed out your application from the moment they saw your age? Did it even get through to them? Was it siphoned out by their database? Ugh._

The wig is starting to feel tighter on her, the makeup looser, the contacts more irritating. All signs of mental fatigue.

She makes an active decision to not think of the internship; between now and the time she returns home, she tells herself, she will have peace of mind. She must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor detail: I used the word "tomes" to describe her textbooks because at the time of writing this I was **deep** into _Octopath Traveler_ (a Nintendo Switch™ exclusive JRPG), and one of the characters constantly referred to books as that, haha.
> 
> I enjoy having "in between" chapters in my stories because they give good moment to show off more characterization, and make the characters and settings feel more real by continuing minor plot points. A rule of thumb: If I mention an event that seems minor in previous chapters, it's definitely going to be expanded upon later on. To what extent and with what relevance? Who knows! I can think of two major events that I've alluded to in the last two chapters...
> 
> Next Chapter: The waiting game is but one battle in a war.


End file.
